


Heirs Apparent

by orphan_account



Category: The Tudors
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, Anne Boleyn had a son. So did her step-daughter, Mary. In 1546, Henry VIII meets his grandson for the first time. Charles, 15, is young Henry reincarnated and would make a much better king than the Prince of Wales, Harry, a sickly boy who only had the Boleyn looks. On his deathbed, Henry passes over his son in the succession and gives it, instead, to Charles. Thus starts civil war between the House of Tudor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September, 1546

This morning, my mother is quiet. I'm instantly worried. She is usually full of chatter while my brother practices archery. However, today, she has yet to say anything, and the lesson is almost over. The air is filled with a feeling I cannot quite describe. She sighs deeply and turns to me.  
"Elizabeth, what is the worst thing your father can do? Use your imagination, the absolute worst thing."  
I am so shocked by her question that it takes me a moment to realize it is not rhetorical. I stutter with the thing that would be worst to me.  
"Go to war?"  
She laughs hoarsely.  
"Please. War would hardly be considered a bad thing compared to what he has done."  
"Mother? What is it? What has Father done?"  
"He has invited Mary and Charles to court."  
Tension. That's what is in the air. Tension and apprehension. Both are radiating off of my mother, dangerously concentrated. The mention of Mary, even if my mother was the one who mentioned her, causes her to be like this. Every time there is a mention of my sister, of the girl whose mother was forced out of court and my father's heart by my own mother, of the girl whose place as the legitimate princess of England I took, my mother fills with tension and apprehension. As no one likes to see my mother upset neither Mary nor her son, Charles, is ever mentioned. It's easy enough. My mother had Mary married to Edward of Portugal, a royal nobody, a mere sixth son of the king of Portugal in the early 30's, before my mother was even officially queen. Then Mary and Edward were shipped off to Wales, had a son, and rarely spoken of again. The thought of them being invited to court is baffling, almost frightening. When I find my voice, it is a strangled whisper.  
"Why?"  
It is the only question I can think to ask. My mother just shakes her head.  
"I don't know, Elizabeth. I don't know.


	2. October, 1546

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter isn't quite done yet. I'll add more as I write it.

The next month is spent preparing for Mary and Charles's visit. On the day they are set to arrive, my brother, Harry, and I decide to play chess. Against any other opponent, both of us would have a sure victory, but when we play against each other? All bets are off. Our topic of discussion is, quite naturally, the imminent appearance of our sister and her son.  
"What do you think Charles will be like?" I ask Harry conversationally as my bishop takes his castle.  
"Probably a Welsh dunce, awed by the gloriousness of my court," he says with all the pomposity of a ten year old boy, taking my last pawn.  
I don't bother pointing out to him that it isn't his court yet or that he has left his queen open. Instead I say,  
"Just because he is Welsh does not mean he is a dunce. Our great-great-grandfather was Welsh, and he was smart enough to marry a queen. Our grandfather was also Welsh, and he rose to be a king."  
He waves his hand, as if neither counts.  
"First, Catherine de Valois was disgraced after she married Owen Tudor. Second, our grandfather was merely Welsh by blood. Remember, he spent the majority of his youth in Brittany. And third, will you go?"  
"I'm thinking!"  
He always tries to rush me into making a snap decision, thus clinching my defeat.  
"I hope he doesn't have one of those incomprehensible Welsh accents," Harry muses.  
"He might speak with a Spanish accent. Since Mary's mother was from Spain, I'm sure Mary knows Spanish. Mary would then most certainly have taught him some, to hold on to that sliver of her mother."  
He nods.  
"That would be a most excellent situation. Then Father would hate both of them more than he already does," a cruel smile spreading across his face.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

The presentation of Mary and Charles to me, my mother, Harry, and my father is quiet. Mary and my mother exchange the briefest of words. Harry says nothing to Charles. Instead, he gives him the suspicious stare that my father gives to people he distrusts. My brother's features (small, pale, dark hair and dark eyes) are exaggerated next to Charles. He is almost fifteen. With his wheat skin, flame hair, sky eyes, strength of a pine tree, and height of an oak, he is the reincarnation of my father when he first became king, as the portraits across all of our palaces could prove. As soon as Charles walks in, my mother gasps and my father crooks his head to the side, his eyes narrowed. I can see, even though her head is bowed, that Mary has a proud smirk on her face, obviously having previously realized the resemblance. My father made about a minute of small talk with his eldest child, and then turned his full attention to Charles.  
"What do you do with all of your free time in Wales, boy?"  
"I like to go out hunting or go hawking if it's especially nice out. But when it rains, I like to play the lute and make up my own songs. Not that I have that much time," he says quickly with a stern look from his mother.  
"Oh?" My father asks, a smile playing on his lips.  
"Charles is often studying. At least I hope so. He studies geography, mathematics, the ancient texts, but I must say, his real talent is languages," Mary boasts.  
"Oh?" My father says, now officially intrigued.  
"What languages do you study?"  
Charles smiles shyly.  
"I am fluent in Welsh, Latin, French, and Spanish, I am still learning Greek and Italian, and my mother says after I am fluent in those, I may start to study Swedish and German."  
Although my brother is gaping and my mother is furious, my father simply nods.  
"So, Harry, do you do archery or play bowls," Charles asks.  
"Oh, no," my father replies.  
"His tutors seem to think that a prince only needs knowledge. They are all much too incapacitated to teach the prince of England anything. We are still looking for someone who can train my son decently."  
This is what my father tells everyone when asked about Harry and his athletic skill. I think it is really just too embarrassing for him to admit that the son of one of the most renowned athletes in Europe (or at least he used to be) has no physical abilities whatsoever. Charles, however, seems to see through the facade, as he nods understandingly, with a glance at my brother's slight build.  
"I can teach you some things, if you want."  
Harry opens his mouth, certainly to reject (probably in colorful words), when my mother speaks up.  
"Of course! How wonderful, Charles. What a kind offer."  
Mary, Harry, and I all gape at her and her huge smile. My father just laughs and takes a sip of his wine.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, my mother comes into my chamber to plait my hair. I look up at my mother through the mirror and ask,  
"What was that?"  
"What was what, Elizabeth? Really, you have to learn to be more specific in your questions."  
"Of course! How wonderful, Charles. What a kind offer!" I mock her tone.  
She flicks her coal eyes to my reflection and smiles.  
"That, my darling, was my own, personal way of keeping my eye on Charles. I don't know what he's doing here, and I don't like it."  
"Him being here or not knowing why?" I ask mischievously.  
"Both," she says, not a hint of humor in the word.  
"Hasn't Father said anything?"  
"Not a word. Well, yes, he did, but it just makes the situation more cryptic."  
"What did he say?"  
"’Because I want to.’"

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Harry comes back from his first archery lesson with Charles in a huff. I look up from my embroidery, my eyebrows raised.  
"What happened?" I ask cautiously.  
"He is singularly the worst teacher I have ever had! Including Mr. Byrd!" He screeches.  
"Harry. He cannot be that bad at archery."  
He spins on me.  
"Oh, he's not bad at archery. He's good! In fact, he's excellent. One of the best archers I've ever seen!"  
I immediately see the problem. Even though my brother looks and acts like our mother, he gets his bruised-more-easily-than-a-peach ego from our father.  
"Simply tell Father you don't want to have lessons from him anymore."  
"I can't! I have absolutely no reason to tell him that! He can't overlook my nonexistent athleticism forever, you know."  
"Fake an injury."  
He just looks at me.  
"What do you want to hear Harry? That you can quit? Because hear this: you can't. Well, technically, you can. But it would look really bad. You said it yourself: sooner or later, you will have to be athletic. This is a country where the most popular sport includes trying to knock the other man off his horse at best and killing him at worst."  
His black eyes, usually so small, are now wide with fear. My heart immediately melts.  
"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sure we can find someone else for you. Maybe Uncle George will try to teach you again."  
He just shakes his head.  
"No. You're right. I'll go back tomorrow."  
I smile sadly.  
"Let's go down to dinner."

\----------------------------------------------------------------

My mother is smiling with glee when my brother and I arrive. I sit down at her right and whisper in her ear,  
"Uncle George told me to beware of that smile. He says you only use it when you're happy about other people's pain."  
The smile grows wider.  
"I get to enjoy an entire meal without having to listen to the endless list of Charles's charms or have to look at Mary's idiotic grin as they're said. What's not to be happy about?"  
I look around the hall for my sister and her son. I spot them with the servants.  
"Mother, why are they down there? She's the princess of England."  
"No. You are the princess of England. She is a royal bastard. Their station is so low that their place is at the servants' table. Never forget that," she snaps.  
My father comes limping in, his bad leg supported by a new cane. He sits between my mother and Harry.  
"Hello dear. You know, I'm sorry I didn't meet Charles sooner. He and I had the most excellent conversation today."  
My mother simply raises her eyebrows and smiles politely. My father looks around for a minute.  
"Charles!" He beckons him over with his hand.  
"Come! Sit with us!"  
He then leans into my brother and I barely hear him say,  
"Harry, can you move down a seat. I want to continue my conversation with Charles from earlier."  
My brother's face freezes for a second, his teeth clenched, but with a stern look from my mother, nodding to the seat next to him, he moves. My father, the king of England, pays attention to no one else besides his royal bastard of a grandson, who was seated with the servants, for the rest of the meal.


End file.
